


The Chronicles of Winter

by Ghostwriter (Zoya_Zalan)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-19 02:22:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3592740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoya_Zalan/pseuds/Ghostwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the hunter becomes the hunted, the only certainty is death itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Safehouse

**Author's Note:**

> This original series started as a fun writing exercise on the LiveJournal community _sekritotherlife_. The premise of the community was that each contributor created a character that would be set in the same fictional universe, where it would then interact with the other characters there. I had no idea where I was going with mine at first. I remember just sitting down and letting the Muse sing. This is what happened from there...
> 
> I take credit for and ownership of all original characters presented within, except where noted in chapter notes. Respect for my creative endeavors is appreciated.

~ * ~ * ~

I arrive under the cover of darkness, slipping quietly into my new territory with a minimum of noticeable activity. The town is small, nondescript — one of many just like it sprawling up the Eastern coast. It’s the perfect place to disappear.

The salty tang of sea water tickles my nostrils as I kill the engine on my BMW cycle, coasting the rest of the way down the road. The smell is familiar to me — comforting almost, stirring vague memories from a different lifetime. But I don't dwell on it; I know better. Comfort is a luxury I cannot afford, especially now.

The safehouse is exactly where Jace had said it would be — last building on the left at the end of Lighthouse Lane. A half-buried bathtub shrine dedicated to the Virgin Mary is my marker, signaling the end of one journey and the beginning of another. Even in the dark I can tell the house appears to be in a state of mild disrepair. An impenetrable fortress wrapped in a mediocre façade. Nice touch.

The garage door rolls open obediently at my approach. No light inside. The visor on my helmet allows me to travel in complete darkness if I need to. And I do, often. Taking one last cautious look around the sleepy neighborhood, I walk my motorcycle inside. I'm not at all surprised when the door closes behind me, unprompted.

I know the routine by heart, though I've never been here before. After parking the Beemer, I head for the metal box attached to the far wall. A complicated array of technology lurks beneath its rusty cover, a menacing reminder of my own mortality. I have precisely sixty seconds to confirm my identity or I'll be very dead. Jace made me memorize the primary code when I was all of ten years old, but despite my confidence in that knowledge, my fingers still shake as I enter the 10-digit number sequence and then press my palm against the authentication screen. An interminable pause follows, or so it seems. In reality only a few seconds probably pass before the faint orangish glow on the control panel turns green. Great. I'll live another day.

After all these years the extensive security system is still in place, still operational — functioning on an almost sentient level, even by current standards. And all of it was custom-made and programmed, right down to the near-soundless garage door mechanism keyed to respond to the tiny transmitter that was implanted in my leg so long ago. But even with all this protection at my fingertips, I remain on guard.

My hand grasps the SIG-Sauer almost affectionately as I slip inside the darkened house, its weight becoming a familiar extension of my body. Another authentication screen greets me just inside. One touch and the system fully arms itself, every square inch of the property monitored with an intricate grid of high-resolution sensors. Anyone trying to break into the house before would have triggered a silent alarm and a visit from the nearest squad car. Now, with the system in full defense mode, any such attempt could prove fatal. Big Brother will even be monitoring the movements of my own bio-signature within the building, assessing any potential danger to me from within and without.

There's no such thing as too much security. Jace's motto. Memories of his smiling face surface unbidden while I canvass the house room by room. I don't expect to find anyone hiding here waiting for me, but my well-honed instincts compel me to secure the area myself. He taught me well.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I finally lower my weapon. I lay it on the back of the sofa while I pull off my helmet. I am immediately plunged into pitch blackness at the loss of my night-vision visor, but my eyes adjust quickly. Darkness is my ally. It always has been. The leather jacket comes off next; I let it drop to the floor. My nose wrinkles at the odor. I stink from too many days spent in the same clothes, but it's a small price to pay in exchange for my life.

After picking up the SIG again, I move to the other side of the room and settle myself in the recliner closest to the window. As I begin my long vigil, I allow emotion to overtake me for the first time in weeks. The urge to curl up and hug myself is overwhelming, though I manage to resist it. The little girl who used to do that is long gone. I succumb to tears instead, letting them slide freely down my cheeks, but the cleansing they offer me is lost in the bitter depths of my grief. Too much has happened — too much has been lost. I'm safe for the moment, but there are no guarantees. When the hunter becomes the hunted, the only certainty is death itself.


	2. Territorial Lines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two gentlemen who appear in this chapter were created by the lovely E. Batagur. They make their appearance with her permission. The epithets used to describe them come from my own character's imagination, though, as she doesn't know their names.

~ * ~ * ~

The sound is vaguely snakelike, a hiss followed by metal giving way as I peel back the pop-top. It comes off easily. I toss it into the garbage and stare at the offending can in my hand. Beans. Again. Even before I raise my spoon, my stomach whines in protest, but I can't ignore the need for protein.

There's plenty of food here; the pantry shelves bulge with their life-sustaining fare, and there is even more stored below in the shelter. One could conceivably spend months here without the need to venture forth. Unfortunately, Jace's idea of food consisted of canned soup, canned vegetables... and canned beans. After almost three weeks of eating nothing but processed food, I'm beginning to doubt the merit of the make-it-simple-quick-and-neat philosophy by which he'd always lived.

_Whatever it takes to survive, kid_ , he would have told me, topping off the barely disguised barb with a friendly tap to the side of my head. Use your head, Winter. _Think._

After forcing down the last of my meager meal, that's exactly what I do, but my final conclusion is no different than my initial gut reaction: it's time to wander in search of fresh food. Restaurants are out of the question — for now, at least. I have no phone to order take-out ahead of time, and waiting would leave me too exposed. A store, then. Someplace I can sweep through quickly.

Decision made, I head for my bedroom where I pull on the thick sweatshirt that had dutifully kept me warm through the power outage earlier in the week. It's a little chilly to be riding around on a motorbike, but it's all I have. Weapon secured at my waist, I slide into my leather jacket, making sure my wallet is still in the left pocket. I'm good to go.

I hesitate by the garage entrance though, heart pounding. I'd only felt eyes on me once, but whoever that was could very easily be waiting for the chance to take a shot at me once I'm in the open. Then again, it could just as easily have been one of the locals who spotted me. Curiosity might have made them stare; I know Jace had communicated with a few of the neighbors over the years. They would know that this was only a seasonal home for him and his "family." Unfortunately for me, this is not the right season.

The feel of my stomach churning makes my decision inevitable. Big Brother responds soundlessly to my command code, standing down from its intense scrutiny to the more moderate gray mode. The house will still be fully wired, but any fool who tries to break in will at least survive. Until I get back, that is.

I grab one of Jace's battered helmets from the storage shelf in the garage; the unique design of my own custom helmet would attract too much attention in this small town. I need to fade into the woodwork here, not stand out. Starting my Beemer, I turn her around. As I do so, the implant in my leg crosses the invisible path of a sensor, activating the garage door mechanism. Fifteen seconds later, I'm on my way.

I scan the neighborhood as I ride through, trying to be cautious and casual all at once. So far, so good. I've spent the last several weeks memorizing a map of Nags Head, so I at least know which direction might lead me to my intended destination. Small town suburbia quickly gives way to what appears to be the old downtown. I say old not only because all the buildings look that way, but also because there isn't much activity. The center of town has clearly moved elsewhere, leaving these sad looking buildings behind.

A few establishments remain here despite the desolation; the Tiny Bubbles Laundromat and the East Shore Insurance Company both have "OPEN" signs displayed in their windows, but it's the next building down which captures my full attention and causes me to pull over.

Patterson's Grocery. 

No crowds, no lines — perfect. I couldn't have asked for a better deal.

The earthy aroma of wood and spices assaults my senses as soon as I enter. I'm practically salivating at the thought of a huge salad with dinner, but I reign in my screaming taste buds long enough to take care of business first. Two exits, front and back; no visible security cameras; one employee — a young woman, college-age; three customers that I can see, two of which are leaving with their purchases. The third customer, an older man, leans casually against the check-out counter, talking with the employee. He glances at me as I pass by, offering a friendly smile and a wink.

The wooden floorboards creak beneath me as I move toward the back of the store, trying in vain to shake off the unexpected blush spreading across my face. Charm and flattery are things I'm not usually susceptible to, probably because those from whom I've received such attentions in the past had always had far more devious schemes in mind. Yet, there'd been no pretense in this gentleman's smile, only honest warmth, and that had caught me off-guard.

Jace had warned me about this; he'd said that that's why it was better in our world. Weaknesses don't have the chance to surface if one is always on alert. He would not be happy with me. Less than a month in limbo and I'm already growing soft.

Gaze fixed straight ahead, I set my jaw and proceed to the produce section. It's small, but the fresh smell and brilliant colors overwhelm me. Food, glorious food! I will eat well tonight.

I am halfway through my fruit and vegetable frenzy, wondering how I'm going to fit all of the groceries into my motorbike's two side compartments, when my senses sharpen in warning. Someone's watching. It's my worst-case scenario: me, out in the open, armed, but still vulnerable without any backup to cover my ass.

Adrenaline floods my system, but I know better than to react. I keep my expression neutral, keep my focus on the task at hand while I concentrate on identifying the source of potential danger. There, in my peripheral vision —someone who escaped my initial observation. Male, judging by his build, though not overly tall. He's at the end of the aisle, and while it doesn't seem like he's staring outright, he's definitely observing me. I can't see him well enough to size up the situation though.

Setting the last produce bag into my rather full grocery basket, I turn, feigning interest in the products on the shelves behind me. For a fraction of an instant, my gaze meets his. He's older, similar in age to the man who was at the check-out, but there's a distinct difference. It's the eyes that give it away, a shrewd, dangerous glint I'd seen each time I'd looked into Jace's eyes... a look I've seen more than once while regarding my own reflection.

I'm no longer the only predator in this building.

He's definitely marked me, though whether he's been sent specifically to find me, or whether we are simply kindred spirits who just happened to choose the same grocery store to shop at, I'm not certain. I have to keep my cool. He's wearing a long coat; any number of weapons could be hidden within those layers.

I blindly grab one of the various packages of spaghetti noodles in front of me before making my way along the aisle in the opposite direction. I'm still pretending to scrutinize the various boxes and cans on the shelves; that way I can track his movements while preparing myself for trouble. If he makes any sudden moves I'll be ready, and if he doesn't, it's a pretty good bet he isn't one of Caniglia's men. That's the one predictable thing about the Mafia: they don't care what kind of mess they make or how many witnesses there are, as long as the job gets done.

A shaky sigh of relief slips past my lips as I round the corner to the next aisle. It's time for this little shopping trip to end. I carefully make my way toward the front of the store, pausing a few times to pick an item off the shelf for the sake of believability in case I'm still being observed. It isn't until I'm in the home stretch, not even ten feet away from the check-out, that I discover how I'd been marked so quickly. The bottom of my jacket had slid up in the back, probably when I'd reached up to tear off some plastic produce bags, leaving part of my weapon exposed. I quickly fix that, cursing my own inattentiveness. Now, if I can just get out of here without screwing anything else up, all might be well in the world.

The other gentleman is still visiting at the check-out counter. He politely steps aside, making room for me. I can't help but notice the brilliant smile he aims at me, but I keep my focus on the young woman. She's wearing a large name tag that reads 'Molly.' I knew a cat named Molly once.

"Hi there!" she greets a little too enthusiastically. The small smile I offer in return is as uninspiring as they come, but then I've never been very good at communication. Molly's eyebrows rise as she begins to empty my basket. Looking down, I can see why. My purchases— including the ones randomly procured — consist of various fruits and vegetables, spaghetti noodles, Preparation H, Dr. Scholl's deodorant foot powder, a bag of pork rinds, and a box of Ding Dongs. Great. I didn't even realize what I'd picked up. What the hell am I supposed to do with Preparation-H?

Mr. Mysterious is back in my sight lines. He's slowly making his way down the last aisle toward the check-out. I'm not the only one who's good at pretending; anyone else might think he was still shopping, but I know better. He's keeping a cautious distance, watching every move I make.

The gentleman beside me at the counter shifts slightly. "All finished?" he calls to the other man. 

My jaw clenches reflexively. They're a team. An ordinary citizen would have alerted the store employee and/or the police right away upon seeing my gun. Of the two of us, Mr. Mysterious had been a lot closer to the check-out when we'd first noticed each other, leaving ample opportunity for warning if that's what his intention had been. Cops? Doubtful. I would have been approached immediately regarding my concealed weapon. The only other possibility I can think of makes me break out in a cold sweat. Assassins are usually solitary creatures, though pairs are not unheard of — Jace and I worked together for years. These two are a little on the old side for hit men, but that only makes me more nervous. Considering most assassins don't live to see middle age, those who do must be damned good. But are they on Caniglia's payroll? The one beside me looks a little on the Sicilian side, now that I think about it, but if I'm their mark, why haven't they taken me down? The circumstances are ideal — it's a clear shot with only one innocent who could potentially get in the way. Why toy with me like this? It just doesn't make sense.

"That'll be twenty ninety-seven," Molly says, her voice startling me out of my intense concentration. When I reach into my pocket for my wallet, I notice several things. Mr. Mysterious comes to a dead halt, his actions clearly indicating to his partner that something is wrong, since Prince Charming's posture changes instantly. He stiffens, turning back to face me. I can feel his gaze boring into the side of my face, but I ignore it. No, definitely not regular citizens. One of them suspected that I might be pulling out a weapon.

Opening my wallet, I hand the young woman my payment. Apparently she hasn't seen many one-hundred dollar bills because her eyes widen in surprise. She spares a quick glance at me before holding the bill up to the store lights to be sure it's the real deal. It is, of course. I don't need counterfeit money. Grabbing an orange marker, Molly places an 'X' on the bill and slips it underneath the regular cash register slots. She smiles as she hands me my change, completely oblivious to the cloud of tension surrounding her. "Paper or plastic?"

"Plastic, please," I respond quietly, watching as she begins the packing process.

Prince Charming relaxes a bit — or so it seems. I'm not fooled by his body language. "Arrivez-vous de France?" he asks, trying to appear casual. I'm impressed. Not only did he correctly place my accent, which is heavily diluted from several decades of English influence, but his French is also flawless.

I can't help myself; I have to look. If this is the end, I want to see who it is that's been hunting me. Furthermore, I want Prince Charming to remember my face for the rest of his days. His eyes aren't brown, as I'd originally thought they would be, though. They're a dark hazel, and while there are plenty of the same predatory vibes emanating from him now as well, his eyes betray more curiosity than anything else. He's definitely a much cooler customer than Mr. Mysterious back there.

"No," I finally respond, refusing to speak in my native tongue. "I live here."

Our stare-down continues, unflinchingly, until Molly finally says, "Here you go!"

Grabbing the bags, I toss one last glare in both of their directions, all but daring them to finish the job while my back is turned.

"Have a great day, and come back soon!" Molly calls after me as I pull open the door and leave.

Absolutely nothing happens, much to my surprise — and relief. No shots. No excruciating pain. No blood. My hands are shaking uncontrollably as I shove the bags into the Beemer's side compartments and pull on my helmet. Less than a minute later, I pull away from the curb and speed toward the other side of town.


	3. The Metamorphosis

~ * ~ * ~

I breathe in deeply, savoring the aroma of sautéing vegetables. For me, this is almost a religious experience. Jace had always found my attachment to cooking very amusing. After a stressful hit, he would head for the brandy; I would head for the kitchen. Tension release can be an intensely personal thing, with each individual handling it differently. Some methods are simply a little more... productive... than others.

I'd found a few pots and pans in the cabinets here — enough to suit my immediate needs, but I would definitely need to get more. There's a lot I would need to get, actually. While Jace had kept the place stocked for temporary use, it would be up to me to turn it into a real home. The safehouse had been built with multiple purposes in mind, the most obvious of those being protection. It was also to serve as an out-of-the-way vacation spot — a place to decompress when reality became too overwhelming. Jace had used it as such for many years. Ultimately, though, it was to become a place of permanent residence. For me.

Salivating, I pour the vegetables into a pot of hot, buttered spaghetti noodles and mix it all together, adding a bit of parmesan cheese that I'd found in the refrigerator. This wouldn't pass as an acceptable dish in any restaurant, but after all I'd eaten lately, it looks and smells heavenly. Digging into my dinner with relish, my thoughts turn back my current situation.

The plan had been set into motion almost two decades earlier. Jace hadn't counted on having a kid to drag around with him, but whenever he'd set about fulfilling an obligation, he'd never left the job half-done. Once I'd become his responsibility, he'd been determined to make sure I'd have some kind of decent life if anything should happen to him. So, the safehouse was built, not in some remote location, but in a low-key area — far enough from the big cities so that it wouldn't draw too much attention, yet close enough to civilization for me to have some kind of normalcy. A safehouse hidden in plain sight was unusual, to say the least, but your average, Leave it to Beaver small-town subdivision was about the last place anybody would go looking for one. Or so we'd both thought.

I pause for a moment, thinking about my close call earlier in the day. Had I completely misjudged those two men in the grocery store? No, I couldn't have. Predators can generally recognize one another easily. Yet, they hadn't opened fire on me. After leaving there, I'd spent the better part of an hour circling around the entire town — twice — before finally heading home. Not once did I see any sign that I was being followed. It had to have been a chance meeting; if they'd been there to take me out, my gun, as well as my response to them, would have been enough to let them know I was their intended mark.

Perhaps they were just passing through town, or taking vacation here. Even predators need a rest once in awhile. If that's the case, then I'm still safe, and if I'm still safe, then I will need to start making myself more visible to the people in this area. Failure to do so will only generate more suspicions once my presence is detected. As it is, I will have much explaining to do to my neighbors. Jace had never let me come here before, even when he'd visited for no other reason than to keep up appearances as a seasonal resident. He'd wanted no connections, nothing to possibly trace me to this location. Those few neighbors with whom he'd spoken would probably have heard vague references to a stepdaughter living in New York. That's my cover; all I have to do now is set things into motion.

I can feel a knot forming in my stomach. It's the same kind of knot I used to get right before a hit. Nerves. Fear. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't purge myself of such human emotions. Jace had always been like a computer — efficient and cunning, but cold. That was the mark of a true killer. But I'd found my way into this dark world of intrigue quite unintentionally. I'd done my best to emulate him, to follow in his footsteps, but it was all learned behavior. Jace's instincts had been innate. Perhaps it's best that I've been given this extraordinary chance at a new life — I'm not sure I would have survived very long as a lone assassin.

I set my empty plate in the sink; I'll do dishes and put food away later. Right now I have more important things to attend to. I'd made the decision long before today's encounter, and I'm determined to follow through with it despite the obvious danger involved. It's Monday night; garbage is collected on Tuesday mornings. Over the past several weeks I'd accumulated enough garbage to finally set something out on the curb for pickup, and seeing the bins will alert neighbors to the fact that someone is here. In a community this small, curiosity would undoubtedly bring people to my doorstep bearing smiles of welcome as well as questions. I would have to face them sooner or later. Trying to remain invisible would not only be impossible, but the lack of human contact would probably drive me slowly insane. I'm damaged enough without any of that, thank you. No, it's time to face reality.

Big Brother powers down at my command, and I enter the garage, flipping on the rarely-used light switch. It's probably the original bulb, I muse as I push the last bag of refuse into one of the large cans. Another touch to the control panel opens the garage door, disengaging the remote sensors that would automatically close the door behind me under normal circumstances. Yes, hello world... I'm here, with the lights on, dragging two large garbage cans into the darkness of a North Carolina evening. My silhouette makes a perfect target should anyone be waiting for me, but much to my relief, nothing happens. There's nobody out on the street or the sidewalk. I even stand there a few minutes, looking around. Nothing. Everyone is too busy with their own lives right now, and that's fine by me. My job isn't finished, though. Setting garbage cans on the curb is window dressing compared to what still needs to be done.

I make it back into the garage and close the door without incident. Shutting off the light there, I rearm the security system and, for the first time since my arrival, I turn on the lamp in the front room. It will remain on for the rest of the evening — another sign of life of which the neighbors will quietly take notice.

Marching down the hall, I pull back the long rug at the other end, exposing a hidden hatch. A quick code entered into the small control panel there releases the locking mechanism. The shelter is a glorified panic room, actually, built to be even more impenetrable than the house itself. There's plenty of food, clothing, and even a fully functional bathroom, should I ever truly need to hide. But right now, all I really need is the computer.

It won't take very long, all of ten minutes maybe, not including boot-up time. But, once I'm finished, Giselle Durand will be, according to any official database in any facility — government or otherwise — a real human being with a real history. And all of it will appear perfectly legitimate thanks to Jace's incredible hacking skills and his high-ranking connections around the world. Nobody involved in making her existence a reality will ask questions. Nobody will even bat an eyelash. But they will all understand two things if they happen to see Giselle's name in a database or receive a phone call from someone inquiring about her previous "employment" records: Jace is dead, and Winter no longer exists.

Pushing fear aside, I descend into the shelter.


	4. Siren's Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, the two men described in this chapter belong to the lovely and talented E. Batagur. They make their appearance with her permission.

~ * ~ * ~

The moment consciousness asserts its gentle influence, I know I'm in trouble. My senses are on alert, as usual, but this time my concern is focused inward, on the gnawing ache in my lower abdomen. An experimental stretch confirms my conclusion. Damn.

Tossing back the covers, I make a beeline for the bathroom, cursing my own stupidity. I've been here for almost a month. A _month_. I've spent time cleaning this house from top to bottom, I've memorized a map of my new territory, and I've even ventured out to satisfy the cravings of my stomach, but did I once remember to check the bathroom cabinets for what I would need right now? Of course not. As if Jace would think to provide such things when he himself was the only visitor here for almost two decades...

I sit on the toilet, head buried in my hands, wishing I could just yank out the offending organs and be done with it. My underwear is saturated, and I doubt there's any peroxide in the house to help get rid of the stain. I don't have time to look either — I'll just have to get some.

I clean myself up and quickly throw on the rest of my clothing, shoving a large wad of scrunched-up toilet paper into the only clean pair of underwear I have left. It'll have to do. I spare only a moment to pop a few Tylenol down my throat before grabbing my weapon and my leather jacket. Then I'm out the door.

The garage door rolls open obediently for me, and it isn't until I'm already turning my Beemer around to leave that I realize I've grabbed the wrong helmet. I've got my good one on. Damn it! My motorbike is enough of an attention-getter in this small town, but riding around with such an expensive-looking helmet will raise a few eyebrows for sure. I'll just have to hope there aren't many people out this early.

I rev the engine slightly before I finally slide out of the garage — another concentration error on my part. I'm used to big city noise; here, this early, you could hear a pin drop the next block over. My motorbike doesn't whine or belch loudly like others do. Quite the contrary, actually; BMWs have a quiet purr which is extremely helpful when one is trying hard _not_ to be seen or heard, but even the slight noise I generate now echoes loudly around the neighborhood, making me wince. This day is definitely not starting well.

I haven't even cleared the driveway when I spot him. The man is walking idly down the sidewalk with his back to me. Any hope I have that he'll simply ignore me is shattered as I pass by. Not only does he turn to look, but in a moment of complete shock, I realize that it's Prince Charming himself. The look he shoots me is equally as bewildered as my own, though whether it's from outright recognition or from the fact that my helmet has a very unusual mirrored visor, I don't know. Double damn it! What else could possibly go wrong today?

A few seconds pass as I speed up the road and away from him. Part of me is waiting, muscles tense as I anticipate a volley of gunfire that never happens. By the time I round the corner at Parsons Avenue, my heart is beating about a million miles an hour. Even if he did recognize me, the surprised look on his face told me everything I needed to know. Two missed opportunities are unthinkable for our kind; had he and his partner really been after me, I would be dead already.

The sense of relief that comes over me is so great that it doesn't even cross my mind to wonder why the hell he _is_ here in Nags Head. I dismiss him almost instantly. All I want to do right now is get to a store.

Patterson's Grocery is already open, much to my surprise. Opening early might generate a bit more business for them, but I still don't understand how such a small establishment could stay running in this part of town. I'm certainly not about to complain, though — the convenience is wonderful.

As I pull open the door, I hear the faint sound of a siren coming to life somewhere in the distance. My heart skips a few beats, sending another rush of adrenaline through my system, but I force myself to breathe normally. I've done nothing wrong — not in this town, at least. I have a concealed weapon, yes, but I also have a very valid-looking permit which allows me to carry it. Dark thoughts begin to rise as the siren grows closer, hovering like shadows in those dimly lit corners of my mind, but I push them away. This isn't the time or the place to face my inner demons. Taking a deep, steadying breath, I step inside the store.

Molly is working again. Great. I'm not sure I can handle such exuberance at seven o'clock in the morning. I briefly contemplate ignoring her bright smile and warm greeting, but even in the fog created by cramps and adrenaline, I know that such behavior will not serve me well in the long run. I'm supposed to settle down here; these are my neighbors, and no matter how un-neighborly I feel, I'm going to have to live with them. Making enemies is the last thing I need to do, so I bite my tongue and offer Molly the most genuine-looking smile I can generate.

My roller coaster ride of emotions for today isn't through yet, I realize, as I move to the check-out counter with my purchases. I can feel my face flush with embarrassment as Molly empties my basket. Her eyebrows rise once more as she rings up the tampons, the maxi pads, the gallon of bleach, and the three bottles of hydrogen peroxide. One of these days I'll have to buy a normal assortment of groceries.

Five minutes later, I'm on my way home. My relief at not seeing anybody on the sidewalks withers away almost immediately when I turn back onto Lighthouse Lane. An ambulance and a squad car are parked outside the house that's across the street and one door down from me. The first faint recollection creeps forward at the sight of the flashing lights, penetrating my defenses... a dark summer evening, the smell of the ocean mingling with the sweet-salty smell of fresh blood. I shake the memory off, my heart thudding wildly once more as I recognize the man being hauled to the ambulance on a gurney.

Prince Charming. And Mr. Mysterious is right beside him, dressed in little more than a bathrobe, and hanging onto his hand despite the flurry of activity surrounding them.

For a split second, I consider turning around, but I'm too late. My implant has already activated the garage door; it would look too suspicious if I disappeared now. Maybe nobody will notice me.

The last thought hasn't even completely formed in my head when Mr. Mysterious suddenly looks up. His gaze is sharp and pained — wounded, but still every bit as deadly as I remember. He watches me, recognition clearly marked in his intense features. Somehow, he knows.

"Oh, my God!"

The woman's voice startles me. She's running across her yard — the one next to mine — her red hair flowing gracefully behind her. Other neighbors are converging as well, and none of them are paying me the slightest bit of attention. Good. Two more seconds and I'm safely inside the garage.

The door slides shut behind me, and I rush to disengage the security system and collect my things from the Beemer. Dropping the bags just inside the door, I forgo turning Big Brother back on in order to run into the front room where I can watch what's happening outside. The ambulance is backing out, its sirens starting to blare...

The sirens in France sound different: two distinct tones talking back and forth instead of a long up-and-down wail, but the effect it has on me is the same. Reality dissolves around me as I slide down to the floor with my back against the sofa, rocking, hugging my legs tightly. A sharp stab of fear pierces me, making me shiver, and all I can hear is the sound of a little girl pleading tearfully with someone... with anyone...

_"Ce n'est pas moi! Ce n'est pas moi!" .....It wasn't me!_


	5. Loss

~ * ~ * ~

So, Prince Charming and Mr. Mysterious are my neighbors. What is this, a retirement community for assassins? I cringe at my own sarcastic thoughts, forcing myself to stop and take a deep breath. For all their suspicious behavior, the Dynamic Duo have not actually done anything to harm me or put me in danger. I have no reason to think badly of them, especially when one of them is obviously very ill — possibly dead, for all I know. It's just been a bad day all around, and it isn't even ten o'clock in the morning.

Grabbing the last fresh apple from the refrigerator, I wander over to the front room to take a peek out one of the windows. Still no sign of activity at the house across the street. I'm not even sure why I keep looking. Morbid curiosity, maybe? Or perhaps just a strange sense of guilt at not having stopped to offer help? I don't know. Feeling guilty is a new experience for me, a habit I seem to have picked up since arriving here. Jace had rarely admitted having such feelings; he'd said they were a sign of weakness, something we couldn't afford in our line of work. Yet, he had to have known guilt in some form or we would never have met.

The apple tastes wonderful. Cold and sweet. In the background, I can hear the washing machine's first spin cycle begin. I have things to do — things I've put off too long already — but I'm hesitant to walk away from the window lest I should miss something. Likely excuse, Winter. You just don't want to say good-bye.

I stay here at the window while I finish my breakfast, trying to reign in the jumble of emotions that's making life difficult for me today. Too much baggage; I need to let some of it go or I'll never get anything done.

After one last glance around the quiet neighborhood, I walk back to the kitchen to dispose of the apple core before heading for the bedroom. Once there, I stare at the dresser, a sense of dread dampening my determination. I'd seen a Goodwill outlet on the other end of town, so at least some of his items might be put to good use. Still, this isn't going to be easy.

Pulling open the bottom drawer, I grab the disarrayed mess of clothing I find there and spread it out on the bed. Jace had been a horrible housekeeper. The fact that I'd discovered all of his clothing _inside_ the dresser drawers when I'd first arrived instead of littering the floor was absolutely astounding. Still, nothing is folded properly; I can't even tell what's clean and what's not, which is why I'm going to wash everything before taking it to Goodwill.

There are three pairs of jeans, along with a belt, a pair of sweat bottoms and two sweatshirts. The sweatshirts I can use; everything else goes. Digging through pockets yields some lint and a dollar twenty-seven in forgotten spare change.

Keeping myself as emotionally distanced as possible, I dump the clothing into a pile on the floor and reach for the next drawer. Lots of T-shirts here, most of which I will keep. Despite his sloppiness, Jace had a practical streak in him — something which definitely rubbed off on me. I see no reason to give all his shirts away when I'm perfectly capable of making use of them myself. Therefore, the plain white and gray ones will stay, but the three more _decorative_ ones will go. Ozzy Osbourne, whose name adds a bit of heavy metal finesse to two of the shirts, just isn't my thing. Acquiring vintage Sabbath memorabilia should make some fan happy.

The design on the last shirt makes me smile. Duran Duran. He'd hated their music with a passion, but had, in a moment of alcohol-induced profundity, declared Simon LeBon to be the most fuckable thing on two legs. He'd even gone to one of their concerts, enduring three and a half hours of 'infernal, pansy-assed shit' in order to catch a glimpse of his favorite jerk-off fantasy. My smile grows wistful as I remember. That was the night I got high for the first time. When he'd refused to take me along, I'd raided his crack stash and had had my own little party. I'd vomited for two days afterward, but Jace had forced me to do all of my chores anyway as payback for that little stunt. I’d been eleven years old.

Drawer number three contains all the socks and underwear he'd kept here. Out of desperation, I'd been using some of his socks since I got here, but they are also too big for me. More goodies for Goodwill once I buy some of my own. The underwear, on the other hand, will just get tossed; too personal for resale. The closet in here is bare except for some boxes — containing what, I'm not sure yet. I'll go through those another day, as well as the myriad of personal belongings I'd found scattered around the house and the shelter. I can't haul very much on my Beemer at one time anyway.

The gentle vibrations I'd felt through the floor cease suddenly, letting me know that the first load of laundry is done. Fighting back a wave of grief, I gather up the jeans and sweatshirts from the floor. He's gone, and I need to accept that. Yes, he'd drunk too much when we weren't tracking a mark; he'd done drugs when it suited him; he'd brought home an endless train of rentboys and fuck partners, and he'd also treated me like crap most of the time, finding any little excuse to give me a lecture about what I should be doing — and how. But you know what? He was all I had. That has to count for something.

After tossing my stain-free bed sheets and underwear into the dryer, I start wash load number two. I should continue to straighten things in the bedroom, but I find myself drawn back to the front room instead. Still no sign of life across the street. Plopping down on the floor, I rest my arms on the window sill and watch, wondering if Mr. Mysterious is feeling the pain of loss as well.


	6. Small Steps

The picture is horrendous. My expression is a study in confused annoyance as I'd tried in vain to locate the marker I'd been told to look at before the idiot clerk snapped the photo. The coloring is bad too, kind of an over-all sickly green hue. It's definitely not the most flattering shot of me, not that DMV photos are supposed to be flattering. What's important is the driver's license itself — proof that I'm now a resident of North Carolina.

The license I'd showed them from New York had been fake — a very _good_ fake, mind you. The records they'd pulled up on one 'Giselle Durand' had been fake as well, added to the database only a few weeks before, but nobody would be able to tell. What Jace had lacked in social skills, he'd made up for in computer-related brilliance.

This license, however, is very real and very legal. It's my first step into the real world. The next one I must take has me a bit on the uneasy side, though. Thus far, I've kept the SIG-Sauer with me at all times, but taking it into a bank is just inviting all kinds of trouble. Yet, this is something that needs to be done. Jace had a ridiculous amount of cash stashed away in the shelter, and while I'm not worried about anyone stealing it, I do need to open a savings account at the very least. It's all part of the plan.

Thanks to his expertise — and his practical frugality — Jace had literally been worth millions, much of which he'd secreted away in various overseas accounts. That money is currently in limbo, awaiting an electronic order to proceed with disbursement. Once I establish an account of some kind and enter that information into the appropriate computer program, those funds will be transferred to me in small bimonthly transactions. It will take years, possibly decades, to complete the process, but that's a necessity. Transferring large sums of money, especially from overseas, could raise eyebrows... and suspicions, something I definitely don't need. Once those accounts are empty, they will automatically terminate.

I was coached on all of this years ago. Jace would make me recite command codes and procedures at every available opportunity; he'd wanted to be sure I'd know what to do when the time came. He could be a real bastard sometimes — most of the time, actually — but he was determined to provide for me even after his death. Because of him, I will live quite comfortably for the rest of my life. I wouldn't even need to work...

Letting out a frustrated sigh, I close my eyes and rub them vigorously. I do need to get a job. I've kept myself busy by cleaning and sorting through Jace's stuff, but after more than a month, I am seriously close to going stir-crazy. I'm just not used to this kind of idleness. I like to keep busy, to feel like I've accomplished something. But who would hire me?

_Skills and experience include tracking, covert observation, and the efficient, cold-blooded assassination of political targets._

Yeah, really impressive, Winter. _Giselle_ , I correct myself. I need to start thinking of myself by my new name.

I toss the new license on the dresser as I exit the bedroom. I'll have to pick up a paper the next time I'm out and search through the employment ads; there's got to be something for which I'm qualified. It's important that I start to mix with the locals, even if on a superficial level. Having a job and a weekly paycheck will also help to keep inquiring minds out of my personal affairs. With any luck, I will appear to be a normal young woman going about her normal business in small town America. Of course, when the Mafia finally locates me and guns me down in some public venue, people will surely start to wonder...

But since I'll be dead, I won't have to worry about it.


	7. Reality's Bitter Edge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laurel's character belongs to the lovely Laura McEwan. She is borrowed with permission.

I cringe at the greeting, the cheerful voice coming from somewhere behind me. So much for remaining an unobtrusive shadow in this community. Bracing myself, I turn, seeking out its source. It's my neighbor — the woman with the red hair. And here I thought I was being clever by sneaking the garbage cans out around dinnertime. I should have waited until after dark.

"Hi," I offer in return, keeping my voice even. Distant.

My tone has no effect; her smile is unwavering as she wheels her own garbage bins to the curb. She's probably around ten or so years older than I am, with hair that spills down her back in a long, thick braid. Her cheeks are tinged pink from the cold, but that appears to be the closest she gets to wearing makeup. The shawl wrapped around her shoulders clashes with the brightly-patterned skirt she's wearing, making me grin. Jace would have called this one a Granola.

I force my unruly sense of humor to back off when she finally turns and approaches me. Holding out her hand, she says, "I'm Laurel."

I accept her gesture of welcome, answering, "Giselle." The unfamiliar syllables roll awkwardly off my tongue. It's the first time I've said the name aloud.

Laurel smiles brightly. "You must be Jonathan's daughter."

"Stepdaughter," I correct. All those years of having information drilled into me has paid off in spades, allowing me to respond automatically despite my momentary shock over hearing Jace's real name. He'd lived almost his entire life under an alias, leaving his given name free of the normal assortment of blemishes associated with such an unsavory career. To his knowledge, nobody had ever made the connection between Jace Goering, the assassin, and Jonathan von Hume, the irritable, slightly eccentric computer genius whose work on the ARPANET project allowed him to retire at age twenty-five.

"He said you were French," she continues. "You have a lovely accent."

I blink in surprise. "Thank you." It must be more noticeable than I thought.

Laurel looks up at the safehouse, still smiling. "Your stepfather was always sneaking in and out of town. I assumed it was him when I saw lights on. Is he here with you?"

I lower my gaze, the knife-like pang of loss giving credibility to my performance. "He was killed in an accident several months ago." A smooth lie. Yes, he was killed, but it was no accident. The first bullet may have been meant for me, but he would have been the next target anyway.

I hear her gasp, and I have to force myself not to flinch when her hand touches my arm hesitantly. "I am so sorry," she whispers.

Her eyes are filled with real tears when I finally look up, though I assume the display is more of a general reaction to the shock of this news. Jace wouldn't have made any real friends here; he'd always told me they were too much of a liability.

"If there's anything I can do..."

I'm not sure what to say. My pause must be understandable, though; I don't see anything but genuine concern in her expression. "Thank you," I finally say, "but everything is okay."

"I'm quite serious," she continues. "I'm more than happy to help you pack things up. Whatever you need."

I find myself floundering in the face of her warm generosity. I'm simply not used to kindness of any sort, and I don't know how to deal with it. I never have. I can almost hear Jace snorting at me, making fun of my weakness. He'd spent the better part of twenty years toughening me up, making me less resistant to such devastating emotions, but without his firm guidance I'm vulnerable. Lost.

In all his infinite underground wisdom, he'd never realized that my dependence on him was the biggest weakness of all.

I suddenly feel trapped, unable to breathe. Invisible walls are closing in on me, and the urge to run is overwhelming. Taking a step backward, I slide away from her touch while trying to seem nonchalant. "I've already taken most of his things to Goodwill," I inform her, giving every subtle indication I can that it's time for this conversation to end. "The house is mine now, but I'm not sure what I'll do."

Laurel offers me a sympathetic smile. "Well, if you should decide to stay here, be sure to let me know. We'll all make sure you get a proper welcome."

God, that's all I need — a neighborhood welcoming committee. I can just see Prince Charming and Mr. Mysterious heading up the greeting line, smiling sweetly while clicking off the safeties on the guns they'd have hidden behind their backs. Once a predator, always a predator... and predators don't like strangers in their territory. I might as well go back to New York and ring the Mafia's doorbell. As it is, I'll have to be very careful. They may not be after me, but they'll be watching.

"I will, thanks," I manage to say before my brain completely shuts down and I forget how to act politely. Offering her one last brief smile, I head back up the driveway. I'm not sure whether my behavior came across as rude, but at this point I can't help myself. I need to feel safe again behind the closed, locked, and wired doors of the safehouse. Apparently I can only handle reality in small doses. For now, at least.

I'm breathing hard by the time I finally reset Big Brother. The air seems stifling, forcing me to sit on the floor and close my eyes. _Breathe_. I cover my face with shaky hands, and I'm surprised to find tears there. Tears of sadness? Anger? Both, probably. This is, after all, the second time I've found myself utterly alone in the world. It's just taking me a lot longer to feel the impact this time around.

"Damn you, Jace," I whisper. "Why did you have to leave me?"


	8. Innocence

The luxury of waking peacefully after a full night's rest is something I'm unaccustomed to, but after almost twenty years of living on the edge, I could easily get used to it. Consciousness stimulates all my senses to full alert, though I still feign being asleep. Underneath the pillow, my hand silently tests the weight of my SIG-Sauer — still there, still ready with the safety off.

Old habits die hard.

One by one, I catalogue sounds and smells, checking for anything which might signal that I'm not alone or that I'm in any danger whatsoever. That's when I notice how cold it is. Though I'm buried under several layers of blankets, the chill of unheated air has penetrated right through to my toes, making me stiff. I'm used to this kind of cold — many nights have been spent under much harsher conditions than this — but that shouldn't be the case here.

Very slowly, I open my eyes, priming the muscles in my dominant arm in case I need to make use of my concealed weapon in a hurry. The room is partially darkened from the thick shade that covers the window, but it's light enough for me to make out every single detail. Nothing. No sounds, no gun barrels pointed at my head. Everything is as it should be except for the temperature.

I lie still for a few minutes more, considering possibilities. Cutting off the heat would be a pretty ridiculous way of trying to take me out, and most of the people who want my head on a platter would simply rush in and let their trigger fingers do the talking. Or try to, at least.

Scratch the intruder theory.

The power must be out for some reason. The safehouse's security system runs off a totally independent power source; outages should have no affect on it... 'should' being the operative word. There's only one way to find out for sure.

Making as little noise as possible, I slip out from beneath the covers. My feet are bare, and I'm only wearing a sleeveless muscle shirt on top, but I ignore any discomfort from the cold as I pad across the room. Weapon raised and ready, I make my way into the hallway, glancing at the control panel long enough to ascertain the system's status. Everything's green. Big Brother is alive and well, standing watch despite the temperature. A small indicator on the panel blinks obediently, alerting me to the fact that conditions inside the house are not optimal. No kidding.

My next stop was to be the thermostat down the hall, but a quick glimpse through a window tells me what I need to know: a thin layer of ice covers everything outside. Closer inspection reveals that Lighthouse Lane has become a makeshift ice rink for several daring youngsters who, under normal circumstances, would have been in school by now. It's a safe bet the entire community is without power.

I relax, shivering slightly. First order of business: warmth. It had been too dangerous to retrieve anything from my rental when I began my unexpected flight to safety, but thanks to Jace, this house is well stocked with just about everything one might need to survive, clothing included. Most of the items are for men, but that doesn't matter to me. I slip into a large, long-sleeved jersey before pulling on the heaviest sweatshirt I can find. Several pairs of socks go on next, the outermost pair made of wool. Pulling taut the tie in my sweat pants, I make sure the safety release is reset on my weapon before tucking it into the waist band. I've had no problems since my arrival six weeks earlier, but it will be a long time yet before the trusty SIG leaves my side for the comfort of a drawer.

I dash out of the bedroom in a burst of childlike enthusiasm, the smooth wood floor in the hall offering no resistance to my woolen sock-slippers. I slide all the way to the living room, mimicking the festive maneuvers of the children outside, before the carpeting there brings me to a halt. A silly smile spreads across my face as I stumble out of glide mode. How long has it been? Weeks? Months? The pressure of my tainted life is easing slowly, day by day, but how long will that last? How long until someone picks up my trail — the one I worked so hard to cover? I have no doubt Caniglia's bloodhounds are still sniffing. They'll always be sniffing. And watching. The thought quickly steals my smile away.

I approach one of the windows in the living room slowly, my gaze seeking the children once more. I have to stretch and tilt my head to see them, as I'm peering from the side of the house up to the road, but they're there, still playing. Kneeling down, I fold my arms on the sill and rest my chin on them as I watch. The kids look so happy and carefree. Just once, I wish I could feel that way. I don't even remember having a childhood. That ended with one well-aimed shot through my father's heart on a hot, humid summer night so long ago.

My eyes close against the rush of emotions all coming back to me. The promise of tears prickles in my sinus cavities, but I fight it. Swallowing hard, I take a deep breath and force myself to face reality. The children are out there; I'm here. Two different worlds. But if I wait long enough, and if I'm careful enough, I might just be able to blend into theirs someday. Jace set it up that way. One floor below, in a dark, steel-reinforced shelter, a new identity was created for me. A single keystroke on Jace's computer, and the code name Winter ceased to exist, leaving in its place a background history, complete with traceable education, work records, and even a goddamned social security number, all for some woman named Giselle Durand — a woman who never really existed. A woman I must become if I'm to survive.

A warning tingle suddenly raises the hair on my neck, a sensation with which I'm all too familiar. Someone is watching me. The SIG is in my hand instantly as I scan the area outside. Nothing. Yet, my senses are too well trained to be imagining things. I'm on my feet quickly, backing away from the window. I don't stop until I'm all the way across the hall, out of the window's sight lines, my back coming to rest against the wall there. I'm numb, both from fear and from the exhaustion of years spent hiding from shadows. I don't even realize that I've slid down the wall until I come to rest on the chilled floor. I'm so tired. I don't even care if the resolution is good or bad... I just want it all to end.


	9. Intruder Alert, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Winter's intriguing neighbors, including this chapter's late-night visitor, all belong to the lovely E. Batagur. They are used with her permission. As before, the epithets used to describe them come from my character's imagination, as she doesn't know their names.

~ * ~ * ~

I love to sit by the big window in the front room at night, watching the quiet neighborhood. It's so peaceful, so comforting being surrounded by darkness. I'll never understand how people can be afraid of the dark. To me, it's like a warm cocoon, something nurturing, not menacing. Darkness cannot hurt you; it's what lurks _within_ the darkness that can.

Jace had always warned me to expect the unexpected, that if I always anticipate the worst, I'll be prepared for anything. As my hackles suddenly rise, I realize my training in that area serves me well even now, after I've allowed my guard to relax somewhat. With my eyes so attuned to nighttime dimness, I have no trouble spotting the movement across the street — right in front of the Dynamic Duo's home. If I were anyone else, I might have dismissed the brief flurry of activity altogether, but after years spent teetering on that knife-edge between life and death, my sixth sense is never wrong about these things.

The movement I saw was too controlled, too stealthy. Whoever's out there is trying very hard not to be seen. It couldn't be Prince Charming or Mr. Mysterious — the height and build are all wrong. That can only mean one thing.

I'm on my feet instantly, grabbing my SIG off the back of the sofa. They might be predators themselves, and this might be their territory, but I know that Prince Charming returned home from the hospital just a few days ago. My gut tells me not to assume that either of them is in any shape, physically or mentally, to deal with an intruder.

The chill of the evening air is invigorating as I slip out the back door. Adrenaline surges through my system. This is my element, something familiar to me amid all the strangeness of my new life. I don't crave this kind of rush — I never did, really — but I'm definitely at home in its embrace. My body reacts instinctively, obeying commands that are so ingrained in me that I'm no longer consciously aware of them.

The nights here are very quiet, but I'm much quieter even as I sprint across the patch of sand and rubble that marks the end of Lighthouse Lane. It's after midnight; everyone in this community is asleep, making my self-appointed task much easier. Quickly, I slip around the back of their neighbor's house, skirting the usual backyard obstructions with practiced ease. At the far corner, the one adjacent to their property, I stop and listen.

Nothing.

Weapon raised, I throw myself around, ready to double-tap if necessary, but the coast is clear. I cross the distance, dodging various burlap-covered plants, until I'm at the front corner of their house. Still no noise. I peer around the edge, relieved to see that the burglar has neither achieved entry yet nor realized that he's been marked by someone else. He's kneeling in front of the door, seemingly oblivious to everything except the lock he's trying to pick.

Busted!

I round the corner and approach as silently as possible, keeping my eyes peeled for any signs of an accomplice. He's dressed in black from head to toe, including a black knit cap. Typical. He might be good, but I'm a professional — killer, that is. I'm almost on top of him before I see the change in his body language. He knows I'm here.

"Don't move," I murmur. "Drop everything and show me your hands."

He hesitates, and even through the dark I can see the minute shift of muscles priming for an attack.

My jaw clenches and I take a quick step backward, keeping the tactical advantage on my side. "Don't even think about it. I am a far better shot than you could _possibly_ imagine." The warning isn't exaggerated; my aim is precise — and quite deadly — all the way up to a distance of half a mile. At point-blank range, he doesn't stand a chance.

"Show me your hands," I repeat, "and stand up. Slowly."

When he finally follows my orders, the first thing I notice is how short he is — probably shorter than me even. Something about his build seems strange, but I ignore it for the moment. Time to put the Dynamic Duo on alert.

"Now ring the doorbell."

Surprisingly enough, he complies right away. Perhaps he's as eager as I am to end this particular stand-off without any bloodshed. It takes a few minutes, but the outside light eventually snaps on. As it does so, I realize the burglar isn't a man at all... unless he's had a top-notch boob job done at some point. I blink, slightly confused, though I keep my attention — and my weapon — fixed on her as the front door opens, revealing a rather disheveled-looking Prince Charming.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that his attention is first drawn to me, but he then does a spectacular double-take when he finally glances at Mata Hari. At least she has the good sense to look ashamed when she meets his gaze. Reaching out, he pulls her cap off, allowing a thick mass of dark brown hair to spill onto her shoulders.

A quick glance at Prince Charming only confuses me further. He looks almost... amused. "She was trying to break into your house," I explain coolly.

His attention suddenly shifts back to me. Whatever amusement I'd seen is now gone. "She's my niece."

His words cut through me, stealing my breath. Niece? This is some sort of family entertainment then, breaking into one another's homes? I blink once more, looking back and forth between the two of them before my reflexes finally kick in. Mr. Mysterious probably has a gun trained on me through one of the windows. I need to be very, very careful.

Slowly, I relax my posture and hold my weapon arm up, aiming the barrel of the SIG skyward as I find and click the safety back on. My face burns with embarrassment. Swallowing, I finally manage to speak, though I can't bring myself to meet their gazes any longer. "My apologies..." My voice nearly cracks on the last word. I don't know what else to say.

_Mistake, mistake, mistake!_ Jace's harsh reminder echoes from the deepest recesses of my memory. _Yet another mistake, Winter!_

We couldn't afford mistakes back then, and I certainly can't afford them now.

"I'm sorry," I mumble, stuffing the SIG into the waist of my jeans. It's a submissive gesture on my part, putting my weapon away. With any luck, they'll interpret it correctly and I won't get my head blown off.

I start to back away when I hear Mata Hari ask, "Are you a cop?"

"No, the neighborhood watch," I spit back before turning to head across their lawn. I'm so upset I can barely see straight.

_What's rule #1?_

Know. Your. Mark.

I didn't know her. I didn't even know she _was_ a she. I made a huge mistake tonight, and I'm damned lucky to be walking away from it alive.

I can hear them start to speak softly, but no one follows or fires on me as I cross the street and duck into the safety of my garage. After shutting Big Brother down, I barrel through the entryway, slamming the door shut behind me. I turn on the kitchen light and grab the first thing I can find to write on — in this case the back of a religious pamphlet some lost soul gave to me while I was downtown the other day. Gritting my teeth, I map out the entire event, listing all of my actions in chronological order and referencing them with crude drawings of the buildings just like Jace had had me do after each hit. He'd told me it was the only way to completely analyze what went right... as well as what went wrong.

I've just finished writing things down when the control panel in the hallway begins to chirp softly, indicating that someone is on safehouse property. Moments later, the front doorbell rings.

"Fuck."

I close my eyes and rub them, fighting against the urge to release all my tension with tears. The bastards have probably reported me to the police. Oh, Jace would be _so_ proud. Since I'll probably have the next two to five years to consider my monumental mistake, I'll undoubtedly have a very thorough analysis finished by the time I get out.

The doorbell sounds again. Persistent, aren't they?

Getting up, I briefly consider taking my weapon with me. But, no — that would be monumental mistake number two. One is enough for tonight, thank you. I toss the SIG onto the table and head for the front door. Whatever happens, happens, I guess.


	10. Intruder Alert, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter, the rating shifts slightly upwards for some language and drug use. "Mr. Mysterious" belongs to the lovely E. Batagur. He is used with permission.

~ * ~ * ~

So, they're here to arrest me, are they? Well, let them. I'm already resigned to that fact as I march to the front door and flip on the dim hall light. At least if I'm behind bars the Mafia will have a harder time locating me, especially since they have no idea what my new name is.

Jaw clenched, I grab the doorknob and yank as hard as I can, fully prepared to face whoever is standing outside demanding my attention... except the front door doesn't budge. I blink in confusion, scanning the deadbolt mechanism. Yes, I unlocked it correctly. I give another tug, and then another when nothing happens, putting some of my weight behind the movement.

The door suddenly lets loose, causing me to stumble backward. I stare at all the tiny bits of paint, wood, and dust that come showering down from the door frame above, dislodged by the force of my actions. Obviously the door's never been opened before. Not the most auspicious of entrances, but I do my best to appear unfazed as I finally glance up at my visitor.

Not the police, I realize, as my heart nearly stutters to a stop. I swallow thickly. It's worse than that.

They are the coldest pair of blue eyes I've ever seen. Deadly calm, yet filled with the kind of danger that speaks far louder than words. These eyes belong to the kind of adversary one would not willingly choose to confront, even someone like me. Unfortunately, I have no choice.

The urge to flee is very strong, but I force myself to meet his gaze. It penetrates me like a knife, dissecting bit by bit, stripping me bare and causing my legs to turn to noodles beneath me. Jace's gaze had had a similar effect on me. Lethal _and_ commanding.

Mr. Mysterious is definitely an Alpha. By the looks of it right now, a very seriously pissed off Alpha.

He hasn't moved a muscle, relying on pure intimidation to get his point across. And it's working too — I can feel myself start to fidget. Whenever Jace's wrath had been aimed at me, I'd buckled mentally. I never did learn how to stand up to him; I was always the weakling, always the submissive... always the one who never did anything right. I took that kind of shit from him, but I'll be damned if I will from anyone else.

"I've already apologized," I hiss, interrupting the tense silence.

Mr. Mysterious doesn't react at first, just continues to stare me down. Eventually, I see him take a slow, deep breath. I'm expecting some kind of outburst judging by the way his jaw is set, but when he finally speaks, his reaction is the exact opposite.

"May I come inside?" he asks. His voice is calm, controlled. Venomous. "Or would you rather the neighbors be privy to this conversation?" A soft British clip dominates his accent, but it's definitely overlapping another distinct inflection. German, perhaps?

I swallow nervously again. My SIG is in the kitchen; if I let him in and he makes any sudden moves, I'll have no way to defend myself other than rushing him physically. Flesh and bullets don't usually mix very well. His point about the neighbors _is_ perfectly legitimate, though; I don't need any more attention drawn to me than I already have.

Reluctantly, I step back, opening the door further. When he steps forward, Big Brother starts chirping again, louder and more insistent than before. Intruder alert. He's lucky I hadn't rearmed the system yet; he'd have been nothing but a lifeless heap before both feet were even inside the doorway.

I back slowly toward the corner where one of the control panels is, keeping my gaze fixed on him, but his focus shifts away from me almost immediately. He's scanning the layout of the house intently, checking every nook and cranny, assessing the danger level, just like I would have done if our roles were reversed.

The safehouse wasn't built for entertainment purposes. There's no television, no phone, no stereo system, no pictures adorning the walls. All I have is some worn-out secondhand furniture, a few ratty rugs, and a security system that makes the one at Fort Knox look like a toy. The only material item on this property that warrants that level of protection is me, and if Mr. Mysterious is as smart as I think he is, he'll likely come to that conclusion soon enough. Dare I hope he'll be intimidated enough to back away slowly and leave me alone?

His gaze swivels back to me after scrutinizing the small surveillance camera mounted in the ceiling opposite the entryway. I should have known better — he doesn't look the least bit rattled. "Could we have more light than this, please?" he asks, gesturing towards the naked 20-watt bulb directly above him. The light is so dim that his face is almost in shadow.

I punch in Big Brother's standby code with a little more force than is necessary. Blessed silence once more. Then, I shoot him my deadliest glare. "Would you mind closing the front door. _Please_ ," I add with exaggerated emphasis before stalking over to the lamp in the front room. The bulb there flares to life for a millisecond before the filament inside snaps, plunging the whole area back to its original dimness. " _Merde_!" I swear under my breath. There are no other lights in this area of the house; since I prefer darkness, it never occurred to me to add more.

I start towards the kitchen, which is still fully illuminated. "Follow me." I don't wait for an answer, and he doesn't offer one. A small part of me — the one that isn't completely livid — is pleased to note that he has indeed shut the door as I'd asked.

Once inside the kitchen, I grab my SIG off the table. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Mr. Mysterious stop dead in his tracks upon rounding the corner and seeing me with my weapon. I resist the urge to smile; at least he's not completely foolhardy. I may be younger and smaller than he is, but he knows better than to underestimate me.

I take advantage of his hesitation to do a bit of my own scrutiny. My past encounters with him have all been fleeting, lasting no more than a few seconds at a time. I only needed that long to assess his potential as a dangerous predator, but the smaller details never fully formed in my overall picture. He's not a large man at all — rather below average, actually. His age is difficult to guess. I'm usually a good judge of that, but his surprisingly trim build doesn't seem to match the wealth of experience which shows in his eyes. I think perhaps a good exercise regimen, and even better genes, has played a part in his youthful appearance. He's older than he looks.

His finely sculpted features hint even further at a European origin, and his light brown hair shines with sprinkles of both gold and gray. He was probably blond when he was younger. If he's not German, he could easily pass for one.

Mr. Mysterious shifts suddenly, and the movement interrupts my observation, jarring me back to reality. I shove the SIG into the waist of my jeans — in the back. From that position, it's a bit more difficult to reach in a pinch. It's my way of letting him know I'm willing to listen. Barely. "Now, what do you want?" I ask.

"What the hell were you doing in our yard?"

My, isn't he in a hurry to get to the point. He hasn't even canvassed the room yet. Of course, with my weapon so close at hand, I doubt he'll take his eyes off of me for an instant now.

"Trying to help," I spit back.

"By holding a gun to—"

"I had no idea she was Prince Charming's niece!" I interrupt, my voice rising along with my temper. "She was trying to get into your house — without a key!"

A flash of surprise registers in Mr. Mysterious's eyes, and it takes me a moment to realize I've used one of my favorite nicknames for them aloud. They obviously have real names, but since I don't know what they are, epithets will have to suffice. Still, I can't help the wash of embarrassment that colors my face as a result.

His gaze is even more piercing than usual. "She was dressed in black, and there are no street lights; how could you possibly have seen her from this distance?"

"I have exceptional eyesight." Translation: I've been trained very, very well. I've no doubt he'll understand that also. He might have even been baiting me — a way of gleaning information without being obvious about it. Too bad I'm familiar with these kinds of tricks. Jace may have been a bastard, but the lessons and information he'd pounded into me over and over has proven invaluable — well worth the suffering I went through to learn it all.

"How do you explain this?" he demands, tilting his head toward my crudely drawn map on the back of the religious pamphlet.

He'd seen it? He'd barely had time to acknowledge the fact that I was armed, much less scan the entire room. His observational skills are obviously far better than I'd first thought.

"Were you casing the property?" he continues, his tone thick with accusation.

My eyes widen at the insinuation. "Of course not!" I do them both what I think is a fucking favor, and this is what I get in return?

"What is it, then?"

"An analysis!" I yell. "I was analyzing my actions, so that I won't make the same mistakes again!"

I'm absolutely shaking with rage. It's just like it was with Jace. There had always been taunts and depreciating comments for everything I'd tried to do. The only difference is that I'd never had the courage to speak to him like I was speaking to Mr. Mysterious right now. I couldn't. Even as mad as I'd gotten at Jace sometimes, I'd always been too grateful to him for taking me in and giving me a place to live. He'd fed me, he'd trained me, he'd built this house for me — hell, he'd even taken the bullet meant for me. He'd given his life for me, the bastard... and I'd never asked for any of it.

Mr. Mysterious straightens his posture a bit at my outburst. There's a sparkle in his eyes, though it has nothing to do with warmth. It's recognition, like I've just finished a test of some kind and scored exactly as he’d thought I would.

Whatever. Pass... fail... it's all the same in this business. Perhaps he won't kill me today, or even tomorrow, but I've apparently pushed him past his tolerance level. Their property is off-limits, a lesson I've learned well, and one I don't plan to repeat if I can help it.

I've had just about enough of this confrontation, though. This is, after all, my space. Gathering my courage, I step forward, meeting his icy glare with one of my own. I don't stop until I'm mere inches away from him, nose to proverbial nose. "If you wish to repay my kindness with malice, so be it. Message received," I growl. "But your welcome here has worn out."

Maybe this is a lesson Jace had tried to teach me: standing my ground. Maybe that was the reason behind all those years of verbal abuse; perhaps he'd wanted me to lash out, to grow some backbone. Funny how I couldn't until he was gone...

Mr. Mysterious's eyes narrow. More scrutiny, more assessment. After nearly a minute, he finally takes a step backward... then another. And then he turns, shooting one last glare in my direction before heading towards the front door. I follow him, watching carefully.

He leaves without further incident, closing the door quietly behind him. I dive for the deadbolt once he's gone, slapping it into place, and then I backtrack to the control panel where I put Big Brother back on duty. I may have triumphed in this immediate battle of wills, but the war belongs to the Dynamic Duo. Why do all these lessons have to be so damned hard?

_They're only as hard as you make them..._

Naturally.

Still shaking, I sag against the wall. I can't handle this. Why did Jace ever think I could fit in here? God, I need a break... something to take me away from here — something to overpower the taste of anger and fear that lingers in my mouth. I laugh suddenly, a harsh, pitiful sound. If Jace had been here, even for short periods of time, he would have kept a stash somewhere. I've been through everything in the shelter and the main area; that leaves one possibility.

Wiping tears from my eyes, I stumble around the corner and open the door to the garage. Flipping the light on, I quickly disengage the sensors and start rummaging through the shelves and boxes Jace had left behind. Most of it is rubbish — the usual junk with which one clutters his garage. It's all for appearances; he never would have used any of it. He'd refused to change a flat tire, for God's sake.

I throw a box of spark plugs clear across the garage as I dig, enjoying the loud noise it makes when it hits the other wall. Better to take my frustration out on inanimate objects than do what I _really_ want to do. I think human target practice might be frowned upon in these parts.

A few seconds later, I uncover an old, beat-up holiday tin that had been secreted behind several buckets of nails. Santa Claus smiles at me from the cover, his rosy cheeks matching the glow in my own. I pull the tin out and open it, smiling against another wave of tears. Merry Christmas, indeed.

Spilling the contents onto the workbench, I set to work. I measure out a generous portion of the weed onto the rice paper with shaky fingers and start to roll from the middle outward, inserting the roach on the second round. While rolling is considered an art form of its own in most circles, perfection isn't my goal; not this time. My nerves are too frayed. Licking the last fold and sealing it down, I smile at my accomplishment. It's probably the most pathetic-looking joint that's ever existed, but it's all mine. And damn, but I need it badly.

I strike a match on my jeans and light up, taking a long toke before releasing the smoke into the air. The harsh burn in my throat is heavenly; I can already feel my body relaxing. Closing the door to the house, I shut off the garage light. Yes, that's better. Darkness. All except the orange glow from the tip of my joint, that is.

I laugh as I stumble around in the dark, looking for a spot on the cement floor that isn't covered with debris from my search. Once I've found one, I plop myself down, pillowing my head on an empty box which caves in with barely any pressure at all. That just makes me laugh harder.

The marijuana works its magic for me, giving my world a strange, hypnotic glow around the edges. All of my problems suddenly become a source of great amusement, and much time is spent considering every one of them, the Dynamic Duo included. Mr. Mysterious is a mean guy, yes, but he sure smelled good. All spicy and such. Was kind of cute too for a FOP.

FOP. Fucking Old Person.

My cackling bounces off the walls of the garage, enveloping me in delightful sound. As I close my eyes and breathe in the strong odor of my savior, I find myself whispering over and over, like a mantra, "Everything's okay.... everything's okay..."

Hell can rise again tomorrow for all I care; just as long as I have this one moment of peace.


End file.
